Babylon Unbound
by Zeitgeist84
Summary: The story didn't end with Voldemort's fall: Seven Auror cases from different points in Harry Potter's life paint a picture of the man behind the legend. Case One: The hunt for an assassin takes a disillusioned Harry Potter and a team of Aurors to Norway. What they find there threatens to topple the Magical World from its pedestal. Rated a hard 'M' for themes and violence.
1. Alfheimr: The Wasted Years

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is owned by me. Like, literally nothing. I'm not even sure if I own myself anymore.

**Summary:** Canon-compliant. In early 2006, Gawain Robards, the head of the Auror Department, and his premier Auror Team bring in a strange artifact from Norway after a tense investigation; a year later, Robards lays dead at the hands of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley in Berlin, the two heroes last war forever changed. The true story behind Harry Potter's promotion to Auror Chief in 2007.

* * *

Babylon Unbound

_"The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death-however mutable man may be able to make them-our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.__"_

- Stanley Kubrick; _Playboy Interview, 1968_

* * *

**Case 7WTC962**: **Álfheimr**  
Responding Aurors: Potter, Harry J.; Weasley, Ronald B.; *REDACTED*; Bones, Susan A.  
Date Opened: 31-12-2005  
Date Closed: 09-11-2006  
Briefing: The Wasted Years

* * *

_New Year's Eve, 2005_

* * *

It was the first thing she said to him when he walked into her flat. It was always the first thing she said:

"You look like hell."

And just like every time before, he ignored the redhead's quip and went straight on in. Her apartment was nice, in a quaint British bed-and-breakfast way, wholesome and innocent. He excused himself to the washroom, filled with knick-knacks and trinkets of all sorts, devil-catchers and pagan good-luck charms resting easily next to hand-soap and toothpaste. The walls were a homey cream color, with swirls and patterns upon it. The water from the sink faucet scalded him. It always did; the hot water was always temperamental. He thought it a weak sort of penance for the kind of man he was. It wasn't much, but it was better than none.

Looking up, Harry Potter surveyed his face in the mirror. His hair was still long and untamed as ever, the fringe pulled back since he no longer had a scar to hide. Forest green eyes glowed back at him, no longer covered by glasses, Harry had long since taken to wearing contacts. A short stubble had grown around his jaw, evidence of his business over the last week. His skin looked old; at 25, Harry had the crow's feet and frown lines of a man ten years older. He wasn't surprised, however, it was the sort of rub all Aurors learned to endure. The job _aged_ men. It _changed_ men.

"Time is a funny thing," Harry muttered to himself as he splashed his face with some of the boiling water.

A knock came at the door. "Having fun flagellating yourself?" She asked; Harry could hear the smile in her voice. The door handle jiggled and turned, and she came into the small bathroom grinning, a cocktail in either hand.

"What's this?" Harry asked, accepting the drink from her as she swept her luxuriant red hair back with her now-free hand and regarded him with her astonishingly pretty blue-grey eyes.

"Your favorite," she replied. "An old-fashioned cocktail for an old-fashioned man."

Harry gave her a raised eyebrow over the tumbler. "An old-fashioned man, am I, Ms. Bones?"

Susan Bones winked, draining her own glass, a gin cocktail, as she always drank after a particularly long day at work. "An old-fashioned man with an old-fashioned issue with commitment," she placed a hand on his broad chest and traced a path down to his belt buckle. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Putting the cocktail down, Harry's own hands ran up Susan's supple flanks, the luxurious feel of her silk dress shirt combined with a blend of hard muscle and softness only an active woman's body could have, a heady combination. He thumbed over her unsupported breasts and held back a rakish grin at her pleased sigh and the sight of two small bumps straining against her blouse.

His mouth lowered to hers, hers up to his; his hands undid the buttons to her blouse, hers undid the buckle to his belt; his hands grasped her by the bottom, hers moved up to his shoulders. They both stumbled out of the bathroom, locked by lip and embrace, and into her bedroom.

Sex between the two was never rough. There was an exceeding gentleness about it, a sensuality uncaptured in their daily lives. Perhaps the roughness of their own lives kept them from bringing it into their dalliance. For Harry, he felt as though she was air, necessary for continued existence; the soft wind that reminded a man he existed. Air was not brutalized, it was to be enjoyed softly, contentedly. So it went with Susan Bones: she was to be enjoyed softly, like air.

And so they went about, enjoying every bit of the other, from her porcelain skin, to long legs, to narrow waist, and his broad shoulders, strong arms, and muscular frame.

Afterward, they laid in a sloppy embrace for a time. She smoked; he drank. It was a good combination for them. It _worked_. He eventually stood, put on his pants, and made for the kitchen to make himself another drink. Ice, water, Bourbon, Bitters, sugar, muddle, orange peel. Harry turned back down the hallway to rejoin Susan but was surprised to see her emerging from the bedroom wearing only his dress shirt and her panties underneath.

"Wanna catch a flick and some takeaway before you ditch me for monotony?" She asked. Harry took a long sip of his cocktail and looked at the clock, reading 3:15 P.M. Five hours before he was expected at The Burrow. He smiled, looking out at Susan's wide array of muggle movies upon a well-worn shelf nestled into the corner of her living room, next to her flickering television, an ad with low production values playing upon it:

"Your pick," he said. "I'm going to have a shower."

"Save me a spot!" She called after him, earning a smile from the raven-haired man as he entered the shower.

Hours later, after food, a movie, and another round in the bed, Harry found himself standing with Susan on the balcony of her flat, watching out over London, thousands of people milling below him, all of them getting ready to visit family they didn't want to see for the New Years, or go club-hopping to meet people not worth talking to, let alone fucking, or go home to an empty flat and a TV dinner, the only honest response of all of them.

But still, it had its positives. Susan lived like a muggle; she never did like the attention her aunt received from the media, and Harry could see the appeal in that. He, of course, was dragged into the spotlight wherever he went, but on this balcony, he was just an _ordinary person_: one of the millions of nobodies lost in this lumbering megalopolis.

Their goodbyes were short and sweet, she placed a cigarette in his coat pocket, saying that if Harry wanted a New Year's smoke, she wanted him to think of her. Harry, ever the charming one, smiled right back and said he would be hard-pressed to stop thinking of her._  
_

"Oh stop," she swatted at his chest, "you're embarrassing me."

Susan fixed his coat and sent him off with a kiss.

* * *

The Burrow was a wasteland of noise.

It had always been a loud, cheery place, but Harry couldn't exactly place when the rickety old house had gone from land of milk and honey to land of confusion. On the outside, it had not changed much in the intervening years between his defeat of the Dark Lord: the wood was still of dubious quality, floors were still haphazardly thrown upon each other, reminding Harry strongly of the the eponymous house of the old woman who lived in a shoe, and the men and women inside it were still undaunted by the world. But now there was a darkness that hung over it, an odd existential fear of this place, as if one day Harry would look back and there would be the decaying Burrow, a murky symbol of all his wasted years.

He strode down the path, unmindful of the slurry that had formed at his feet, remnants of all the others that had trod this way to the Burrow. A freezing rain pelted his face, stinging him like a thousand Lilliputians throwing their spears in vain defense.

The front door opened before he even reached the front steps, revealing Molly Weasley's flaming red hair and rose-red cheeks. Physically, Mrs. Weasley did not look much older than when Harry had first met her fourteen years earlier, the slowed aging of her witch-blood in full effect, but there was something about her motherly glow that had been lost to time. She looked tired, withered, and skinnier than he remembered.

"Hi mum," he greeted and Mrs. Weasley's tired eyes curved in delight:

"There he is!" She gave him a matronly smile and a rib-crushing hug. "I'm so glad you could make it. Ginny says you're always _working_ these days."

"Cases," Harry replied. "They pile up. Ron's already got it, and when Hermione makes the switch to MLE, she'll get hit with it, too. You and she are saints for watching over Jimmy while I've been away, mum."

Mrs. Weasley placed a hand to his face, warming Harry's cold cheek and gave it a motherly kiss. "Anything for my children, busy as they are." She seemed to remember herself and started, moving away from the door. "Come in out of the cold, dear!"

"Thanks, mum," Harry replied, stepping across the threshold, from cold, dead winter into the warm, lively Burrow. In the parlor, or the Weasley-equivalent of one, sat the wives of all the Weasley men and the lone Potter woman gossiping amicably.

Hermione Weasley, Harry's best friend, was the first to notice him. "Harry!" She exclaimed. Both she and Harry had long outgrown her customary bone-crushing hugs, but she did smile and beckon him over with enthusiasm.

"'Lo, Hermione," Harry returned, earning another smile. Next to her sat the long-standing and recently-toppled apple of Harry's eye, Ginny Potter, his wife, the woman he had sworn to protect and love 'til death did him part, blah, blah, blah. "Evening there Gin-and-tonic. You're quite the sight for sore eyes," he said, kissing her forehead.

Ginny regarded him with a smile, but it did not contain the same warmth as Mrs. Weasley's or Hermione's. It, like most of their marriage these days, was a platitude, done out of convenience to avoid the issue at hand, that their marriage was failing. Little James Potter sat on her knee, his hazel eyes alighting with recognition as he took in the haggard form of his father. He immediately left his mother's grasp, earning a frown from Ginny, and toddled off to Harry, who picked him up with a tenderness and care he rarely showed to anyone but his son:

"Hey there, Jim," he greeted, settling the boy into his hip and mock-groaning under James's weight. "You're beginning to get heavy, Jimmy; your dad can't carry you so well these days. He's gettin' old, y'know?"

James, however, giggled and poked his father's nose, not fooled at all. "You're silly, daddy," he said, poking Harry once more.

"Silly? Me? No, surely not!" Harry yelped in mock-shock. "Well," he continued, "would you like to be silly with daddy?"

Just as James was about to answer, Harry felt a tug on the leg of his jeans. He looked down to see his godson, Teddy Lupin, standing with Victoire Weasley. Both of them greeted Harry eagerly and scampered off with James, whom Teddy considered a little brother without any of the animosity that usually occurred between older and younger siblings.

This left Harry alone with his sister-in-law and wife. "Thanks for bringing James," he said to Hermione, whom nodded politely. Ginny, whom had been away on tour with the Holyhead Harpies, also thanked her and Hermione flushed at the continued praise. She, of course, knew exactly why Harry and Ginny kept thanking her and studiously avoided the other's gaze. Harry hated that about Hermione, that he could rarely, if ever, convincingly lie to her. So Hermione raised an eyebrow at Harry, who, under her watchful eye, turned and dutifully pecked his wife upon the mouth.

In that moment, however, he saw the visage of Susan Bones in his mind's eye, rather than that of Ginny Potter. Long ago, that might have made him cringe, but Harry had come to terms with his 'shortcomings'. Was he a good man? No, most assuredly not, and he would be the first to admit it. He was a philanderer and a liar, but whatever his private failings, Harry _tried_ to be a decent man to all those around him.

He was never sure if he was successful.

Harry made small talk with his wife and best friend, but Harry couldn't help but keep one eye on his surroundings; Hermione had called it the 'Auror's Curse' when she had noticed Ron doing the same several years earlier. George, Ron's irreverent prankster brother whom had lost some of that irreverence with his other half during the war, a twin brother named Fred, stood with his elder brother Bill at a makeshift bar where he seemed to be pouring drinks for everyone. Percy strode awkwardly toward Hermione and attempted to engage her regarding magical theory, apparently deeming her the only one intelligent enough to hold such a conversation with him. Ron chatted amicably with Neville Longbottom, Luna Scamander and her husband, Rolf. Andromeda Tonks and Arthur Weasley looked on fondly at the large family from the kitchen entryway.

Harry immediately made his way to George. Seven years of high-stress Auror cases had turned Harry into a high-functioning alcoholic, and he knew that he'd need several drinks in him to avoid massacring what little fun he might have today.

"Wotcher, George," Harry said.

"'Lo there, Harrikins," the redhead mocked in that charming way of his. "Would the resident alcoholic like it old-fashioned or would he rather have the whole of the firewhiskey?"

Harry merely raised an eyebrow at George's straight-face and Bill's smile, a terrifying prospect, given the elder sibling's never-fully-healed scars.

"Come on, Potter," the man continued. "A booze-hound detective? You're such a walking cliché."

"One, I'm not a detective," Harry rebuffed. "And two, it's the holidays. Would you really deny me the medicine of the season just because it's _cliché_?"

George merely snorted.

"Good," smiled Harry. "Now make it an old-fashioned."

He quickly set to drinking with George and Bill, and, after downing three cocktails in ten minutes, he felt pleasantly numb. So numb, in fact, that Fleur's passing by didn't attract his male gaze, though Neville stared dumbly and openly at the part-Veela from across the room. Fleur dragged Bill away to deal with something in the kitchen; the spot he left vacated was almost immediately filled by Ron.

Ron had never been one for fancy drinks, taking only a dash of firewhiskey and clinking his glass against Harry's.

"It's good to be home, eh Harry?" Ron sighed contentedly. "We aren't around enough, what with work and all. It drives Hermione absolutely bonkers, it does. Still, though, hoped we could've invited a few of the people from the office here. Would've liked to see Bones come around, she always seems so _lonely_."

It took all of Harry's willpower not to choke on his drink.

"Still, though, no work, no responsibilities, just family and food," he finished with a sigh.

"The life of kings," Harry agreed with a thin smile, clinking his glass against Ron's and downing it in a few large gulps.

"So," Ron began, smacking his lips after a particularly sour shot, "where've you been all day? We got out of work _hours_ ago."

And there it was: the question Harry feared, and, in some deep, dark hole in his psyche, wanted to be asked. Where did he go, what did he do with all his time? Who was he _really_? Harry himself wasn't sure of the answers to these questions, so he always lied:

"Visited Dudley and his wife for lunch," Harry fibbed confidently, sipping at his drink. "They wanted to have me over for dinner, but you know how my uncle gets about Gin and Jimmy."

Dudley Dursley had started a family early with a charming young Glaswegian named Elizabeth Darrow, whom went by Elsie, for short. A perky, idealistic brunette, Elsie was a journalist and the polar opposite of her husband, a Grunnings salesman like his father before him, and she had borne him two boys by twenty-two, Edward and David, with a third child on the way.

Harry had gone to their home for lunch, but it had been several days earlier, on Boxing Day.

"You saw Dudley and Elsie, then?" Ron asked. "How are they? The kids?"

"They're good. Elsie threatened to hunt me down again if I don't bring you and Hermione over for Easter."

Ron grinned. "Right, wouldn't want _that_ to happen again."

In 1999, whilst Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared a small flat above a bakery nearby Morpeth castle in Northumberland, Elsie had learned over dinner her then-boyfriend Dudley had a cousin whom had both saved his life and was habitually scorned by Mr. and Mrs. Dursley. She then took it upon herself to track Harry down, using what Harry could only guess was a sort of muggle magic because he still had _no_ clue how she had tracked him down. And suddenly, a few weeks later, a brunette appeared in the landing outside their flat, practically barging in. Harry had been so surprised by this pretty, petite woman not only dating a whale like Dudley, but forcing her way into his flat that he merely let her in. He had found Dudley slimmed, was her boyfriend, and was no longer a tosser. She brought him an Ginny over for dinner the next night.

Barring his Uncle Vernon's near coronary, Harry had to say the night went exceptionally well. And now, he was an integral part to the younger half of the Dursley family, playing uncle to Edward and David.

"Tell her we'd be glad to come," Ron smiled, before taking a second look at his drink and Harry. "Well, I'll never be able to keep up with you, so I won't even try. Wanna play Wizard's Chess?"

"No thanks," Harry declined with a smirk. "If I wanted to get my arse handed to me, I'd argue with Hermione over House-Elf Rights."

"Ugh," said Ron, "_spew_."

"It's S.P.E.W., _Ronald_!" Harry said foppishly, giving his best impression of a chastising Hermione.

Both men laughed.

* * *

"What are you doing out here?" Hermione asked, drawing her coat tightly around her as she joined Harry on the Burrow's front porch. In less than a few seconds, Hermione was already rosy-cheeked. Harry had always found her quite fetching that way.

He waved the cigarette he had been smoking before Hermione had come out. "Out for a fag," he said, and immediately made to explain when he saw her look. "I know, I know, it's a filthy habit and it kills and it rots your teeth. But it _is_ good for stress."

Hermione just shrugged. "Just make sure to get the smell off. I doubt Ginny would like sleeping next to walking cigar. And brush your teeth _extra_ well."

"I'll be sure to," Harry affirmed with a barking laugh. "Speaking of teeth; where are the Doctors' Granger?"

"They'll be here tonight," Hermione said. "Mum and dad are just running late."

"Ah." He said. "How goes the switch from Regulation of Magical Creatures to Law Enforcement?"

"Slowly," smiled Hermione. A long, comfortable silence followed, the sign of two great friends merely enjoying the presence of the other, until Hermione broke it: "What about you?" She said

"What?" Harry asked.

"Where have you been, and don't try to lie to me about Dudley and Elsie. I know you haven't been there since Boxing Day."

Harry sighed, he hated this about Hermione. "And how did you know that?" He deadpanned.

"Harry," Hermione entreated, ignoring his question. "She's your _wife_. Why are you doing this to her?"

"Doing what?" He shot back. "What do you think is going on?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. But don't you think she deserves to know why your marriage is falling apart?" Hermione asked quietly.

"And do that for what?" Harry asked, raking a hand through his hair and taking a long drag of the cigarette. "So this big _family_ of ours can close in on itself? So I can spend my days, at best, with only partial custody of James? So Ron can turn on me, and you can, too?"

Hermione flinched as though Harry had slapped her. "Harry, don't be silly, you know that I would never-" she began hotly, only to be cut off.

"If you were to be given a choice between they and I, who do you think you'd choose? I certainly don't think it would you'd like to be left out in the cold with me over Ron and the rest."

Rather than pacifying his longtime best friend, the statement seemed to incense her. She raised her hands in the bitter evening air, and said: "Where are we Harry? Am I not in the cold with you right now?"

Harry stubbornly remained silent, taking a long drag of his cigarette and blowing it over the freshly fallen snow, wispy strands of smoke rollicking over waves diamonds, like clouds over the sea.

"Maybe you deserve to be left in the cold," Hermione continued with a most un-Hermione-like sneer. "The way you've been acting. I can tell: the late nights, the disinterest in saving your marriage. Maybe they can't," she pointed to the warm living room of the Burrow, "but I _can_. And it makes me _sad_. For the boy I used to think the world of, and the _alien_ you've become."

The black-haired Auror shrugged. "Think the world of?" He chuckled. "Don't be ridiculous." Hermione raised an eyebrow coolly at Harry's words. "Or maybe I do deserve to be alone. But walk in there, look at my son, and tell me I deserve to lose him. Do it."

Hermione looked conflicted. "No," she relented, "you're a great father. He needs you."

"Yeah, he does," Harry agreed. "Ginny's good, when she's not off in Malyasia with the Harpies doing a tour. He needs someone, even if I can't be there all the time."

"Still, Harry," Hermione warned, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't excuse you. Either you stop whatever it is that's taking up your time and come back to your family, or you stop _this_ charade." She said, pointing at Harry's wedding ring.

The silence returned, only this time it wasn't quite so comfortable, until Harry turned and replied: "Is that a threat?"

Hermione glared. "I'm your best friend; I would never threaten you. That being said, Ginny is _also_ one of my friends, and you've done nothing to deny what I'm accusing you of, and I don't _want_ to keep this secret."

Harry stared at his cigarette in response, as if looking to it for advice. He found none. Eventually, he looked up at the sky and exhaled: "There's nothing to deny." Hermione looked his way, and Harry met her gaze. The two old friends stood shoulder-to-shoulder, but they were oceans apart.

"Come inside, you'll catch cold," Hermione said at length, with a heaving sigh that could only come from a long-suffering friend of Harry Potter's.

She opened the shutter door and went inside, and it closed behind her with a sharp whack.

Harry stamped out his cigarette and followed.

* * *

"Dinner looks wonderful, Molly," William Granger, Hermione's father, complimented Mrs. Weasley, whom took the praise with a slight blush. An assortment of foods graced the Weasley dining table, from Christmas ham to lamb roast, from steamed vegetables to some rather fancy French dishes Fleur had prepared. Harry sat, flanked to the left by Ginny and to the right by Hermione, whom Ron sat next to. James slept contentedly in the living room after Harry and Ginny fed him; both parents kept close eye on the boy.

"It wasn't _all_ me," Molly said, "Hermione helped immensely, along with Fleur."

Hermione's mother, Helen, gave a wry smile at her daughter. "Is that so? I don't know where she got it from. God knows it wasn't from me." The adults at the table laughed softly.

Arthur allowed Hermione's father to cut the ham, and once all customs were dispensed with, Ron speared every bit of food he could, as though it would have disappeared at any moment. Harry filled his plate at a more sedate pace, exchanging a small grin with Ginny and Hermione over the glutton that Ron was, but before any of them could take a bite, Ron yelped and felt inside the pocket of his trousers. When he slipped his hand in, he cringed:

"Unbelievable," he muttered. Harry looked on confusedly for a moment with the rest of the table, but then he felt it.

And then, he understood.

His Auror Badge, stuffed haphazardly into his pocket glowed bright and hot, a surefire signal to drop whatever it was Harry was doing and apparate to the Auror Offices to find out what Gawain Robards, his boss and mentor, wanted from him.

"Please tell me we don't have to go," Ron said, ignoring everyone else and looking only at Harry. "Please tell me we can skive, just for tonight?"

Harry chuckled as he set down his fork and knife, a dry, sarcastic sound. "You know how the he is. We need to be there or I reckon he'll just barge in here and take us."

"Fuck," Ron swore pushing back in his chair with a ear-splitting screech that was accompanied by both Molly and Hermione reproaching his swearing. Ignoring them, he went for his jacket in the front closet.

Harry downed the rest of his cocktail, snatched one bite of the lamb roast and made to follow. Ron had already turned by the time Harry found his topcoat. Returning to the table for goodbyes, Harry spotted Ron apologizing profusely to Hermione, whom looked disappointed, but understanding. He shrugged at Ginny and mouthed 'sorry', earning a nod. He gave Ginny a kiss and was then crushed alongside Ron in one of Hermione's trademarked hugs, a tradition whenever the two went out on emergency calls. Harry also found his son and godson, giving them both hugs and goodbyes and a kiss on the forehead for Victoire.

After tightening his own coat, Harry followed Ron out of the Burrow, past the anti-apparition wards and made for the Ministry.

* * *

It rained outside like it always did in this city. A preternatural sadness seemed to sweep the landscape even as Harry knew millions waited for the New Year to come in. Only Ron's intonation of "Bloody hell!" brought his partner back to the scene in front of him:

Aurors, a dark legion their menacing black robes, swept across the office in droves; the entire floor felt like organized chaos. Harry and Ron sent questioning looks at one another, wondering what could have changed so completely in the few hours they'd been gone.

Their questions were answered by Susan Bones, wearing similarly dark robes as Harry and the rest of the Auror corps. "You remember the murder of Gareth Morgan two months ago?"

"Who doesn't?" Asked Ron. "It's not every day a member of the Wizengamot is assassinated. But why does that matter; I thought the trail went cold?"

"It was. You remember we determined there was a group of five, and one of them was a man who fashioned himself a Dark Lord."

"We heard the rumors," Harry said, trying to be professional, but Susan in Auror garb was very distracting indeed. "the Mountain King."

"Well, several sheep-herders in Norway claimed to have seen a man claiming to be the Mountain King kill a man," she said. "ICW investigated, and the Interpol Aurors found that the man he killed, his wand signature matched one that was found on a butler at Morgan's home."

"Shite," Ron whistled. "So, what? We're to head to Norway then?"

"Yup, that looks to be it," Susan started, but then snapped her fingers as though remembering something. "Oh, wait, and one more thing. The sheep-herders were elves."

"House-elves?" Ron questioned.

"No," said Susan. "_Real_ elves. You'll see when we get there."

Ron blinked in confusion, and when she was sure the redhead wasn't looking, Susan gave Harry a surreptitious wink before sauntering ahead. "Follow me; I'll take you to Robards."

Harry was sure the exaggerated sway of her hips was no accident.

They were met by the grizzled Auror chief, Gawain Robards. Robards was a hard-looking man, tall and built with dark brown hair that had just begun to give way to gray of experience and electric blue eyes matched in lumosity only by the late Alastor Moody's Mad-Eye, a three-day growth of beard outlined his gaunt face and came to a point at the end of a sharp chin. Harry, like most of the Auror Department before him, never failed to defer to the man when he caught sight of those eyes; they were not unlike Dumbledore, but whereas the celebrated Headmaster's eyes twinkled with mischief, like that of a man who knows a secret about every person he came into contact with, Robards' stare was _commanding_, lacking the whimsy and containing twice the intensity of the Professor's gaze.

Robards had led admirably as Auror Chief for just over eight years now, and had received Harry's unadulterated respect, the likes of which his predecessor had never had even the faintest wisp of.

"Potter, Weasley!" He barked at the two, snapping Ron to attention but failing to faze Harry, whom already waited in a soldier's stance. "Follow me, we'll need to discuss this in private. You too, Bones."

Without waiting for reply, the grizzled man turned away and marched toward his office. Ron shrugged at Harry and followed in the Chief's wake. Eventually, Harry did the same, and Susan brought up the rear, exchanging only slight glances with the black-haired Auror.

Robards' office was predictably bare. He was an intensely private man; there were no pictures of his wife or daughters, though Harry had met them all, because Robards felt no need to keep anything personal within these four walls. It was an impenetrable, impersonal fortress of his, where he worked his devil magic as a master of war, and then retired to his home, his family, all things personal. The office, if one could call it that, simply consisted of two seats in front of a finely polished desk, topped with only two or three files, a sneakoscope and a placard with Robards name emblazoned on it.

Harry allowed Susan to walk in ahead of him and closed the door behind him; looming over his coworkers as they took the uncomfortable chairs in front of the Auror Chief's desk.

"We know this man," Robards began, his face an indifferent mask. "We know what he's done, and we know why he did it. This Mountain King is of no use to us alive, and whatever he's doing in Norway _cannot_ be good. The Director agrees and so too does the Minster. Which is why we are deviating from protocol. We will assemble a team of fifteen, go to Odda, Norway, where our _King_ was last seen. And then we eliminate him and his cronies quickly and cleanly. No mercy."

The order hung in the air, and all three Aurors recoiled at the wild deviation from the Auror handbook, which stated that no fugitive could be killed by Auror members without first using lethal spells. The only time that law was lifted was during a prolonged period of war, as Britain had experienced during Lord Voldemort's reign.

"Those are war-time measures," said Harry, being the first one to regain his bearings after the odd order. "Are we at war, sir?" He asked, hoping vainly that Robards had not just given the trio a kill-on-sight order.

Robards gaze was calm and ageless, almost zen-like. It unnerved Harry to see someone so serene, entrenched in a maelstrom of emotions as he was. Without so much as a stutter, the Chief responded:

"We may be, Auror Potter. We may be."

* * *

**A/N:** And so begins a sort of Auror anthology collection. This kind of came out of watching True Detective, but I feel that sticking with one or two central characters may ground the story a little bit more than a full-on anthology. BU isn't so much a sprawling story centering around one plot (like TKoL or MB), but rather several shorter stories in no particular order (all between 30-60k) all put in one fic. Most will center around Harry and Ron, but, really, the only mainstay character is Harry; some of the other cases don't feature Ron.

However, this case _does_ feature Ron, and it borrows a lot from Norse Mythology as well as Conrad's Heart of Darkness. Updates won't be quick, as MB is still my top priority (and because the humor in that is a bit easier to write than the gravitas in this), but I'd say between every month-and-a-half to two months should be the update schedule.

So far, seven cases (the main characters. dates, and skeletal plotline) have been planned out. Two more _may_ be added, though neither of those will feature Harry or the twenty-first century.

**Chapter Notes:**

Adultery: Harry is an adulterer and by all rights a bastard. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. He was not and will not always be an adulterer, because in 2017 (the presumed year of the epilogue) Harry and Ginny are okay with each other. As of right now, however, he isn't faithful. Would Canon Harry cheat on Ginny? Probably not. But then again, Canon!Harry probably wouldn't be happy with their marriage either. There's also a very specific reason I chose Susan, reasons which will become more apparent in the coming chapters.

Hermione: Hermione is only keeping from voicing her concerns over Harry to Ginny because she thinks it would be bad for James, she doesn't _want_ to cover for him, even if she doesn't know exactly what's going on (though Hermione's a smart woman, safe bet is she'll figure out). She wants Harry to either stop or get out of the marriage, rather than staying and hurting Ginny more in the long run. This plot-thread will run to the end of the case.

Tone: You might have noticed Harry is rather subdued, humorless, and almost reactive rather than proactive, in this chapter with only a few exceptions. This is to emphasize Harry's lack of control: his alienation, his frustration with his marriage, and also the repercussions of an earlier case that will be discussed later.

Dudley and Elsie were dwelled upon for a reason; they will feature into a case taking place in 2012.

Alcoholism: In keeping with the sort of hardboiled feel I'm going for (hopefully I've sort of captured it!), Harry channels a bit of Don Draper in his vices (hence his partiality for Old-fashioned cocktails). Also, it's hard not to compare the two, now that I've seen A Young Doctor's Notebook and can only imagine an older Harry as Jon Hamm with a Surrey drawl.

Main Characters: Since the main characters change every case, I chose the three most consistent characters for the listed characters which is the trio.

For those of you wondering about Midnight Blues, I'm three-fourths of the way done with the chapter at about 6700 words. That chapter should be coming out in a few days or a week.

So, was it okay? Was it _divine_? Was it meh and should I just stick to MB? Or was it god-fucking-awful and I should consider killing myself for having had people read such an atrocity? Send me your thoughts!

Thanks for reading,  
Geist.


	2. Alfheimr: Children of the Earth

**Disclaimer:** Nothing is owned by me. Like, literally nothing. I'm not even sure if I own myself anymore.

**Pre-chapter Address**: I know many of you are put off by Cheating Bastard Harry, and think it's entirely unbelievable given his canon counterpart. I hear you; it's unlikely for eighteen year-old Harry who just finished Hogwarts and just defeated Voldemort to cheat on Ginny. Nearly impossible, actually. But, on the other hand, this takes place _in medias res_, so to speak. This is nearly eight years after DH. People _change_. There are two cases that occur before this, and both show a believable lead-up from DH Harry to the Harry you saw in chapter 1. I'm certain that that's a deal-breaker for some and I accepted that before I started writing this story. If you believe it's too much a deviation from the character, I understand, but if you want to know _why_ Harry changed so much, stick around for a couple more chapters.

* * *

**Case 7WTC962**: **Álfheimr**  
Responding Aurors: Potter, Harry J.; Weasley, Ronald B.; *REDACTED*; Bones, Susan A.  
Date Opened: 31-12-2005  
Date Closed: 09-11-2006  
Phase 1: Children of the Earth

* * *

_New Year's Eve, 2005_

* * *

Harry Potter was never one to look upon the past fondly.

He was, Harry thought as he swallowed a burning shot of firewhiskey, conditioned into hating the past. There were many good memories in days gone by, yes, most revolving around a castle, a redheaded boy, and a bushy-haired girl, but they had grown up in a rancid, inverted world that was only just now dragging itself from the garbage-strewn hovel society had retreated into for the last two-hundred years: tradition.

Tradition was often something to be lauded. But tradition was also what caused so many holy wars; tradition was what skyrocketed Voldemort to power; tradition made the world go round, regardless of if it was a good spin or sinister one. Nobody, however, told the English Ministry of Magic such things: tradition is what was being thrown out of the proverbial window by Robards, Director of Magical Law Enforcement Anna Cosmyth, and the Minister himself with this sanctioned man-hunt and elimination mission of a man without even the slightest hope for a proper trial.

It sounded corrupt and felt like a compromise of morals. And to Harry, being of the sort to call a spade a spade, it was corrupt and was a compromise of morality in a job that, above all, required an unwavering sense of justice.

But Harry was also the man to follow orders, even if he didn't particularly like them, and so that is how he found himself wiggling into the Auror Department's new-age body-armor, which felt and looked more like rubberized wetsuit with a few added bells and whistles. Green harnessing criss-crossed the dark, blue-grey material of the new-age armor, bands of gold snugly wrapped around his bicep and thighs, separating it from black padding down to the feet.

Harry stood in this snug suit, staring out one of the Ministry's magicked windows, showing the London's dreary streets instead of the underground.

Raining. It was always raining.

Behind him, Harry heard the whooshing sound of a fire rising, or, in this particular case, the sound of someone flooing directly to his office. Since only four people were keyed into his office and two were already on the floor, there were few guesses as to who it could be.

"We're not going anywhere tonight, but all Aurors are needed on the job, so we're on lockdown 'til morning when we leave."

"Understandable," a feminine voice returned.

When he turned, he found Hermione glaring at his suit with critical eye. Since it clung to Harry's body like a second skin, Harry couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious at Hermione's inspection. "It looks like it has good defenses," she finally declared, deeming it to be satisfactory, all of the tension from their conversation at The Burrow seemed to have melted away. "Though a little tight. You can't _possibly_ be comfortable in that."

"No one ever is," Harry drawled back.

"Well," said Hermione as she walked toward him, stopped, and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder, "you fill it out very well, Auror Potter."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. So, what brings you to the Auror Department? Ron's outside talking to Jensen, if you're looking for him."

"I'll visit him soon enough. Ginny wanted to come, too, but she needed to put James to bed," said Hermione with a shake of her head, her curly hair brushing his face as she did so. "Meanwhile, I know you're always best informed about these sort of things. What's Robards' playing at, calling you in on New Year's Eve?"

"Classified, Granger-danger," Harry poked her forehead playfully, ignoring Hermione's outraged bristling at the hated nickname. "But, if you must know, I don't know any more than Ron does, and from what I do know, it doesn't sound good. We'll be out of the country for a few days at least, and I don't think this is going to be one of those 'for-the-Queen!' affairs."

"Why?" Asked Hermione. "What's different?"

"It's an extermination mission. No survivors."

Hermione cocked her head in puzzlement and chewed on her bottom lip, a common Hermione trait signifying worry or the mental gymnastics only she could accomplish. "But... they _can't _do that! Lethal measures are only authorized when in a war! It's _illegal_!"

"Hermione," Harry said, steadying two hands on his friend's small shoulders. "This is the twenty-first century. Our wars are 'preventative wars', whatever the bloody hell that means."

The brunette leveled him with a haughty gaze that strongly reminded Harry of the bossy girl Hermione had once been. "Explain," was all she said, and so Harry got to explaining.

"I don't even know, that was the term Robards and Cosmyth kept using," Harry sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Something about trying to erase a problem before it even starts, preventing large-scale wars through quick skirmishes and incursions prior to any 'inciting incident'."

Hermione's look morphed from one of rapt attention to shocked outrage. "And Kingsley is just_ fine with that_?"

"So I'm told," Harry replied, giving the brunette a Gallic sort of shrug. "And don't even think about reporting this; I don't want to regret telling you about this."

Hermione leveled a short look at Harry. "Do you really think that little of me?" She asked with playful haughtiness. Harry shook his head no:

"Well, that's it, I guess. And so to Norway Ron and I go."

Hermione's gaze softened before she sprung into his arms. "You take care of him, Harry Potter, do you understand? You take _care_ of him. And you take care of yourself, do you hear me? It's an order."

Harry chuckled, returning his friend's hug. "On my honor," he said as he pulled away. "Now get a move on. Your husband's out there and I don't think he'd appreciate you hugging me while I'm in this thing," he waved his hands down at the suit he wore.

Hermione gave him a brave smile and made for the door out into the Auror office proper. At the door, however, she paused with her hand on the knob. Harry, whom had reclaimed his drink from its perch on the corner of his desk, looked expectantly at the brunette.

"Really, Harry," she said. "Take care of him; I'd be devastated if he would never get to meet Rosie."

"Rosie?" Asked Harry, taking a sip of his firewhiskey and looking back at his friend in confusion as a demure smile graced her face:

"Ron and I were thinking of names if we ever had..." she trailed off, looking uncertainly around the room. "'Rose' was one of them."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "You're—?"

"—Shh!" Hermione whispered, holding a finger over her lips in gesture to keep silent. "It's a secret!"

Harry laughed. "Can I at least give you my congratulations?"

"You can. _After_ you two come back from your little assignment," she winked and eased the door open, peering out into the busy hallway. After catching sight of something, perhaps a shock of orange-peel colored hair, Hermione slipped out and the door glided shut behind her.

Harry waited until she was long gone before letting the smile drop from his face. Ron and Hermione pregnant? He poured himself another drink and swallowed it whole this time.

They were to leave first thing in the morning, so Harry decided to turn in early on the couch near the door at the other end of his office. Draping his robe over his body and with enough alcohol in him to feel drowsy, Harry fell asleep quickly.

* * *

"Wake up Potter," growled a voice Harry was typically unused to hearing during a wake-up call. He blinked twice and looked up, thankful that he wasn't hung over, and found Gawain Robards standing over him:

"Chief," he intoned politely, sitting up and yawning.

"Zavras made coffee," Robards said, "have yourself some. I need you alert. Meet me back here in ten; we move out in two hours. And that means _two hours_, not the customary Potter four."

"I'll try my best, Chief," said Harry, standing up and stretching.

Robards chuckled, a low, fierce sound. "As impudent as your father. Fortunately, you've your mother's brains, and I can abide that."

Harry stopped and frowned at the chief, he never indicated he had known Harry's parents before. "Did you know them well?" Both men paused as they heard a large clanging noise for twenty seconds somewhere down the hall.

"Aye, that's an understatement," the Chief said after the noise died down, but made no effort to explain and instead shooed Harry out of his own office. "Go. Coffee."

Halfway to the department kitchen, Harry was met by Ron, whom wasn't bouncing off the walls shouting with glee, Harry had to assume Hermione hadn't yet told him of the baby. In fact, he looked predictably disheveled as he often did that early in the morning: "Wotcher mate," Ron intoned sleepily. "Bones just marched into the barracks and with an army of pots and pans banging together behind her. Sweet girl, but sometimes she can be a real b—"

"—Yes, Auror Weasley?" Susan intoned from behind the two, smiling gregariously, but Harry could see the thinly veiled murder in her eyes. He couldn't help but grin when Ron, as was typical of himself, began backtracking:

"—beguiling woman, a real _beguiling _woman, am I right, Harry?" Ron covered quickly with a fake, plastered smile. Harry merely shrugged and winked at Susan. "Traitor!" Roared Ron, but there was a smile in his shout. Harry mentally shrugged at the byplay; if Hermione had decided she was going to wait to tell Ron, he wasn't going to ruin her surprise.

Susan fell into step with the two other Aurors. "Assuming Robards sent you in a hurry to get coffee, right?"

"Yeah, he kept trying to shoo me out of my office," Harry shrugged. "Weird, but then again, it's Robards."

"Oh, Harry Potter, never grow up; your innocence is so endearing it hurts!" Susan mocked, earning questioning looks from both her coworkers. "Word around the office is that since Minister Shacklebolt is ailing, Director Cosmyth is making a run for the Minister's chair, and Robards will head up the Department after this. Which means that the Auror Chief desk is there for the taking."

Harry immediately caught on to Susan's implication. "That's ridiculous. I'm 26 and don't even have NEWTs; I ended up in the Auror Department on the Minister's goodwill; there's lots of people more qualified for Auror Chief and no one in their right mind would want someone as young as me in that chair."

"Don't sell yourself short, Harry," Ron grinned. "You need to think grand," he made a show of waving to an imaginary audience, "like, _really_ grand; you did give Voldemort one between the eyes, after all. If you don't think big, you're nothing but a dog or a pony for the pantywaists upstairs."

"I'd be both just to fire you," quipped Harry.

"Ooh, such _swordplay_! You're a most abominable drunk, have you ever been told that?" Ron smirked at the lofty exchange. "Flinging barbs are fun and all, but one should be wary lest he get caught in no-man's-land."

"A World War One reference?" Asked Harry, astonished. "Look at you, a regular scholar."

"Hermione's been teaching me," said Ron as they reached the kitchen; he immediately made for the coffee. "Your lot are an interesting people," he continued sagely as he poured himself a mug, "dramatic and prone to outbursts of high-casualty violence every few hours. Like three women wearing the same dress at a pureblood's costume party."

"As much as I enjoy listening to two grown men banter like they _think_ they're witty, I'm going to have to pass," said Susan, pouring herself a mug and moving back the way she came.

"You just don't understand the fine art of conversation, Flame!" Harry called out to her retreating form, earning a grin from the woman before she turned back and continued on her way.

"Ah, she's a great lass, isn't she?" Ron sighed, smirking. "Strange no one's put a ring on her finger."

"Bones?" Harry laughed with a raised eyebrow. "She isn't the marrying type."

"Isn't the marrying—what're you on about? _All_ women want to get married! If _Hermione_ wanted to get married, so does Bones."

"All women want to get married? Jesus, you should be nominated Ministry Equal Opportunity spokesperson," deadpanned Harry, sipping some of the bitter brew. "Trust me, Bones'd streak through Wembley on a Christmas day fixture before donning white, as it were."

Ron's grin was politely lecherous. "She'd still be donning white, you know, just not how she'd expect it. Think of it! Flecks of melting snow on those warm, spectacular ti—"

"What a gentleman you are," said Harry, checking his pocket watch. "I should get back to my office before Robards decides to huff, puff, and blow it down. You staying or coming?"

"Staying," smirked Ron, raising his mug. "not all the rubles in the world could get me to listen to _ze führer_ this early in the morning."

"Very good," Harry shook his head at Ron's ignorance, raising his glass as well. "Vell, see you at 'ze Reichstag." He grinned before sauntering out the break room; the last thing he heard before turning a corner was his oldest friend's booming laughter.

* * *

"You know you're not supposed to drink on the job, right?" Robards drawled, holding up Harry's bottle of Ogden's when the latter re-entered his office. Harry, for his part, played it off and shrugged as he set his coffee down:

"Works better than a bloody cheering charm," Harry snipped with a raised eyebrow, to which his mentor merely looked amused:

"Have you any glasses then?" The elder man asked, that amused smile never leaving his face. Harry moved toward his desk and unlocked the top drawer, where a second glass stood. After Harry handed the glass to his boss, Robards looked around Harry's office pensively and poured two thimbles into either glass. "You know this office was once mine."

Harry sat on the couch he'd been sleeping on earlier, facing his boss, whom sat in the lone recliner of this room. "I didn't know that, actually."

"It was ages ago, naturally," the old man smiled, a rarity in and of itself. "The early nineties. Just before you went to Hogwarts and everything started going to shite." Both men full-on laughed at the last. "It was what propelled me to Chief."

Harry remained stone silent, choosing to sip from his drink instead of responding.

"In fact, this room has a history of holding Aurors who came to become Chief," Robards said. "Before me, Rufus Scrimgeour had it, and for a short time during the war, so did your father."

"My father?"

"Yes, your father," said Robards. "He was a great Auror. The man was _talented_, could have made a bid for Minister had he lived. He did some _amazing_ work during the Cold War when Lord Voldemort was trying to ally himself with the Soviets. Sort of like you after what happened to the muggles in 2001."

"Russians and Voldemort?" Harry questioned with a grin. "How did _that_ partnership come about?"

"The way all of them do: Voldemort only had a ramshackle force of about fifty Death Eaters and few holdings since he had spent most of his life as a scholar prior to his... _villainous __turn_. He thought Moscow could give him the money and resources he needed to gather an army to take over England and they thought he could keep us and the Yanks busy while they spread their influence into Asia and South America."

"So the wizards were 'fighting' communism too," Harry drawled. "Not so different, then."

"Well, we weren't fighting communism, but in theory it's the same; it was just a pissing match between us and them. No good or bad, no purebloods or mudbloods, no capitalism or communism, just swinging dicks. That's all it really was in the end. We rarely are so different from our non-magic friends; only Purebloods seem to think we have some great purpose the muggles don't," started Robards, but he abruptly changed topic. "But, that's not what I'm here to talk to you about. I'm here to talk about succession."

_No way_, thought Harry, _Susan was right_.

As Robards was about to continue, a knock came at the door to the office. Harry made to answer, but his boss held out a pacifying hand and stood instead; he walked to the door with a steady sedate pace, but the rigidity of each step betrayed his military background. The elder man opened the door to reveal an attractive middle-aged blonde. She wore navy blue robes and a simple pantsuit underneath it, complimenting her short hairstyle and sparkling blue eyes quite nicely.

"Am I late?" Asked she, striding into the office with purpose and taking a seat next to Harry on the couch.

Robards shrugged. "Not at all, Director Cosmyth, we were just about to discuss the changes being made."

"Well, fancy that! I'm right on time then," said the Director with a megawatt smile. "Should you do the honors or should I?"

"Your lead," Robards quipped and sat back into his chair.

"Well, alright then," the Director said, before turning to Harry. "Mr. Potter, as you know, Minister Shacklebolt has taken ill recently—it's nothing life threatening, so not to worry—but the Wizengamot and the Minister himself believe that it is best for Kingsley to step down so that he can receive adequate treatment at home without the stresses that would come with remaining Minister.

"In the meanwhile, the Wizengamot want to replace Shacklebolt with a person who would fit easily into Minister Shacklebolt's government, a man who understands the ins-and-outs of government and falls on the same ideological lines as the Minister himself—in other words, an Auror."

Harry nodded. "So the government needs another strong, MLE-based Minister to keep the public feeling safe. When do we say goodbye to you, Director?"

Cosmyth laughed, a tinkling sound that highlighted her pretty features and hid her just-beginning-to-form frown lines and crow's feet. "Oh, not me, Auror Potter; I will be remaining director of Law Enforcement. The public and the Wizengamot are still afraid of another Dark Lord or a Death Eater resurgence; they want a person who _understands_ war. And though I spent much of the last eight years prosecuting Death Eaters and those who think they are Dark Lords, I've never had the pleasure of combat with them. They want Mr. Robards here to take the Minister's chair."

"And," said Robards. "I've put you in as my replacement after I 'move on', so to speak."

"Gawain!" Rebuked Cosmyth lightly. "You sound as though you're to be executed!" Robards merely gave a wry smile in her direction and then looked expectantly at his stunned protege.

"But—" Harry began ineffectually, as he was immediately interrupted by Robards:

"I've run the gamut of complaints about your promotion: I know you're young, I know you didn't graduate from Hogwarts, and I know this will _piss off_ a lot of the fossils in this museum, but they'll have to learn to deal with it. You are an Auror worth fifteen of the others. You're smart, you have a good head, and you've heart. If you were ten years older, I'd have you take the Minister's chair instead of mine. I won't take no for an answer."

Harry flopped back and forth like a hooked fish on a boat deck. "I—I don't know—I'd have to talk it over with my—with my wife... I'd have to—"

"—Don't answer just yet," said Robards with a rare kindly smile. "After this little excursion, you can go back home, talk it over with your wife, find out how you can structure this around James, _then_ come back and say 'yes'."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at that.

Robards and Cosmyth exchanged glances and then stood together. "Don't let this get you _too_ distracted, we leave in an hour," Robards lectured good-naturedly.

"I won't, sir," replied Harry with a small salute.

Cosmyth, however, extended an hand out to Harry, which the Auror wunderkind took. "I do look forward to working more closely together."

"Likewise," said Harry, nodding.

With that, Robards and Cosmyth ushered themselves out of his office and Harry turned back toward his magicked windows, now streaming with early-morning sunlight. Harry poured himself a double-helping of Ogden's on rocks and returned to his couch, mulling over the latest left turn his life had taken.

* * *

Nature was a tyrant, a siren call for the troubled soul, and it often called to Harry. The curve of a tree trunk shooting toward the sky, the howling of a wolf at some distant moon, the crunch of undisturbed snow under his feet; it was all much too beautiful, too wonderful. Even now, he often thought of running away, to Alaska or Russia—some place no one would ever find him—and spend out his days as a dog sledder, as a recluse.

Harry knew, however, that he was much too weak for that. He had experienced loneliness before; few men could bear it, and he was not among that happy few. That, perhaps, was the grand irony of it all: to have amassed so much; to have built a life and fortune on some great lie, and the only escape that ever graced the surface of his psyche was just another lie.

"Sickle for your thoughts?" Susan asked, breaking Harry from his seeming trance as more Aurors shifted into existence, each holding onto a normally worthless bauble made priceless by magic.

Harry smiled wryly in response. "Don't rob yourself; you'd be better off offering bottle caps."

"What did I say about confidence, Harry?" Ron's voice came from somewhere behind the two. Harry turned to see his redheaded friend trotting behind them with the same blue-grey suit he and Susan wore and a jaunty smile worn on his face.

"That you're not lacking and you should be?" Quipped the raven-haired man and in the same breath folding his arms behind his back in a rigid Auror's stance as Robards landed lightly on the snow-covered ground. The elder man flipped a fat, gold galleon that had been his portkey before sliding it inside the pocket of his robes:

"As you already no doubt know, we are just outside Odda, Norway," the boss man commented. "This is a small team because we can't afford to make this a large-scale manhunt. For now, we will split up into two groups: Potter, Weasley, Bones, Lancaster, you four are with me. We're to question the men that claimed to have seen our Mountain King."

Harry caught Susan nodding vigorously in his periphery. Ron merely stood with that unaffected smile still plastered onto his face.

"Johnson, Sullivan, Draper, Kovalyov, Bernard, you're to head into town—the wizarding one, _not_ the muggle one. We have several friendly faces that might tell us something if the elves don't pan out."

A tall, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair that Harry had heard being called Sullivan immediately took control of that group, being the resident graybeard. Before he could leave, however, Robards gave the man another stern bit of advice:

"And for the love of Merlin, be _subtle_ about it. The last thing we need anyone to know is that English Aurors are tracking down a domestic terrorist on their turf."

"Yes, sir!" Two or three of the other group chorused before being led away by Sullivan, whom made clever use of the Point-Me spell to the Wizarding city, farther down the range. Harry knew, however, that they were headed in the opposite direction, toward the higher reaches of the fjord where few people ever ventured.

Robards turned on the four left. "Follow me and take a look at your _Satellar_s; you'll find the location of our meeting with the shepherds marked on your map. Potter, take the rear."

Harry nodded and let the rest of the group travel ahead whilst he fiddled with a small metallic object reminiscent of a communications radio, clicking a side button as a virtual representation of the Hardangerfjord upon which Odda was built sprung to miniature life in shades of gold. A _Satellar_, the newest invention from the Ministry's Department of Mysteries, which could visually map any un-warded area in the world. Harry smirked as he noted a little red blip marking a clearing about a kilometer to the north of where he stood; magic was something else indeed.

Ron, too, noticed the distance. "Any reason why we don't just apparate there, Chief?"

"They don't take kindly to our magic," was Robards' cryptic response. Ron looked perplexed and then slowed down and spoke lowly enough that only Harry could hear:

"Blimey, Harry, you didn't tell me we were questioning your uncle!"

"Please. My uncle? Shepherding? The fat git hasn't seen a single day's hard work since Thatcher was busy raping Falklands veterans," Harry snarked as he shut off his Satellar and kept close eye on his surroundings; Ron let out a low snicker and went back to scanning the valley as well.

Silence reigned once more; every so often Susan would turn back and give Harry a small smile or a worried look that reminded the black-haired man curiously of Hermione when in one of her prolonged overprotective bouts, but that was the extent of any byplay between the aurors. For the most part, all of them kept to themselves; Robards and the auror Harry wasn't familiar with, Lancaster, strode a few paces ahead of the trio whilst Harry tried vainly to keep his mind off his family life.

But no matter how hard he tried, Hermione's words always slunk back to him. _She deserves to know why your marriage is falling apart_. And what was he supposed to tell Ginny? That he had fallen out of love with her? That he had never been in love with her and had made a terrible mistake asking her hand to begin with? Harry shook the cobwebs from his head and smiled wryly; they often did say that the forest made a man contemplative and self-reflective. Harry wasn't yet sure he was ready for that kind of reflection.

But it did pass the time, and before long, the group found itself in the clearing where they were to meet the shepherds. And there, at the edge of the clearing where trees met and melted back into black wood stood three men and a woman, and they were all impossibly beautiful.

There was a lithe grace to each of them; Harry was struck dumb by the woman's veela-like allure and, though he was by no means a vain creature, couldn't hold down all of his jealousy at the tranquil handsomeness in the mens' faces.

Two of them, one of the men and the woman, wore glittering armor that shone like on a bright, sunny day, though Harry knew the sky was overcast and gray. In their hands they held spears and at their sides rested thin, lightweight swords. Harry exchanged glances with Ron, feeling grossly under-equipped with his wand. Aurors were only beginning to experiment with muggle weaponry due to the increased velocity of a bullet compared to a spell; it would be years before it was anything resembling finished.

Behind the two armored, weapon-wielding figures stood the other two men, in light tunics, looking supremely unconcerned with the fact that the temperature was well below freezing.

The armored ones spoke when the small troop of black-robed humans stopped short of them. "Welcome to our home, Children of the Earth," said the woman in a pleasing mezzo-soprano to Harry.

Robards didn't miss a beat, answering for his protege. "We accept your hospitality, Children of the Forest."

The woman seemed unfazed but the armored man blinked; clearly he had not expected Robards to care enough to learn the customs of his people, nor to speak, for some reason unknown to Harry; it seemed as though the elves had expected him to lead, rather than Robards. Ron stared on in unabashed awe whilst Harry struggled to retain a modicum of decorum: it wouldn't do to spend his time gawking at the elves, even though they were so very different from the kind he knew in England.

The armored elf turned to the tunic-wearing ones. "You may speak with the _Gwedwir_."

The two men nodded vigorously, complying with the wishes of the armored soldiers, though Harry surmised if a man held a spear and a sword and he had no weapons, he would also pay close attention to the soldiers' orders.

"After you are finished speaking with them you are welcome to join us at the Great Hall of Álfheim. Our leader wishes to speak with you." said the woman, her eyes sweeping over the crowd Harry knew, but he felt as though she were speaking to him alone. One look at Ron and Susan confirmed they both felt the same way as well.

Robards, however, was the first of the group to regain his composure. "Thank you, we would like to speak to the Mother as well. She may be able to shed some light on this Mountain King." He paused a moment, the spoke once more: "Has your unit heard anything?"

The male elf considered the words carefully, as though he were choosing the perfect lie. "No more than you have, Mr. Robards."

"You know me by name?" Robards asked.

"All of the _Ljósálfar_ do. Your name is very popular among our cousins in the south." The elf answered before he turned to Harry. "As is yours, Mr. Potter. Very famous, indeed."

Harry raised an eyebrow but made no response. So the House Elves were related to these people? He found it hard to believe. Still, it was important information to keep stored away. Maybe he could pass it on to Hermione, if she didn't already know it, and perhaps she could use it for one last House Elf Rights push before transferring to the DMLE.

"We will leave you to discuss, and then we will guide you to Álfheim," the she-elf intoned in that tranquil voice of hers and nodded to her partner; they gathered their spears and walked twenty paces off, watching the newly-formed coterie in stony silence.

The humans turned to the men in the tunics, and Harry noted their appearance for the first time. Both with blond hair that nearly verged on silvery, but with kindly blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, they reminded him of nobler versions of Lucius and Draco Malfoy. When the elder one spoke, likely the father of the younger, that image was preserved: he spoke with the eloquence of a man born into money, but without the boorishness or self-aggrandizing entitlement that came with such class:

"We will try our best to help you, Son of Adam," he said, looking Robards directly in the eye. "But it was dark, and I apologize if I do not remember everything."

"That will be no trouble," said Robards, "any help you can give us would go quite a long way."

The elder elf nodded, face betraying no emotion. "It was two nights ago, whence we were tending to the _hirca_."

"That's another name for a goat," Susan explained quietly, so only Ron and Harry could hear.

"A _gwedwag_, like you," continued the elf, "with twenty of the like following him down the forest path not a hundred paces from here. We remained quiet, it is not our business to interfere with the affairs of your kind."

"And for good reason," whispered Susan to Harry. "We've never been the peace-loving sort."

"The leader, a man in black robes with a long gray beard, was called 'The Mountain King' by his followers. I recognize this name from what _Stórrmōdir_ had heard from your international Aurors: he is a dangerous man. So we listened. He commanded a man, whom had done something dishonorable, he did not specify what, to kill himself."

"Kill himself?" Asked Robards, eyes boring into the elf's.

The younger one then spoke. "Yes, he commanded him to kill himself for the shame. The man he had dictated die then took his wand out from his robe and used a green spell upon himself."

"Such pointless waste of life," said the elder elf sadly. "I do not understand that concerning your people. You are quick to leap to such extremes."

"Not all of us," interrupted Harry, feeling the need to speak. "But far too many."

The elf stared directly into Harry's eyes. He did not feel the poking around of a skilled legilimens, but he felt as though his mind was being read all the same. "There is a sadness about you," concluded the elf after his searching look.

Susan and Ron gave Harry an askance glance; Lancaster stared on ahead as Robards steered the conversation back toward the topic at hand:

"The Interpol Aurors told us that you had said The Mountain King killed him, not that it was a suicide."

"He was commanded to kill himself by his master. I do not see a meaningful distinction between that and physically killing the man."

Robards remained stone still, his eyes searching, but Harry could see that there wasn't enough in this story to make heads or tails of anything other than that The Mountain King demanded complete loyalty and was an elderly man, by what the elves said. Harry's boss then sighed, and asked the typical questions, what did they see; did these men seem to be the extent of his troops; and more.

Of course, the elves were not of much help, apologizing for not checking more closely. Robards then waved them off and called over the two armored elves, whom had been standing guard at a path that likely led the way the elves had originally come.

"Have you finished speaking with them?" Said the male elf.

Robards nodded.

"Follow us, we will take you to Álfheim," said the woman placidly.

"I do not believe that will be necessary," countered Robards softly, but with authority. "We must get back to the others."

"I must insist," said the woman in the least insistent tone possible, though something about the words carried wait. "It is a great honor to meet _Stórrmōdir_; she is not usually interested in others. She is interested in you, however."

"In whom?" Asked Robards.

The woman seemed to ignore Robards question and instead chose to stare at Harry. "You, _Gwedwir_. The Oracle speaks of you, and so _Stórrmōdir _wishes to have conference with you. Will you follow?"

The elves stared expectantly. Harry felt like he was eleven years old again, when a giant man calling himself 'Hagrid' kicked down a door and told Harry that he was a wizard. He was struck dumb, unsure of what to say, when Robards leaned in:

"Accept," he said. "These elves are ferocious warriors, and if you decline, they will take it as a slight. And if the Mountain King has as many people as they're saying, we'd do well to befriend, rather than insult, them."

Harry was bolstered by the counsel. "We will follow," he said as he turned from his mentor.

"As you wish," said the she-elf in a tone that conveyed neither happiness nor dismay. "Do follow us."

The armored elves started back toward the path they had been guarding, with those in tunics following close behind. Harry exchanged a glance with Ron and Susan and shrugged as the trio and Lancaster looked back to their leader for guidance:

"Take point, Potter," said Robards. "They wanted to speak with you. They may have already been insulted that I spoke with them instead. I don't intend on continuing with that error. Once we get to their village and until we are back among our own kind, _you_ are the leader of this outfit."

Harry knew better than to argue with his mentor: "Yes, sir," he intoned, and swept away toward the path the elves had began their trek down.

Robards and the other four followed close behind.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for your patience, and I hope it was well-rewarded. This is the last set-up chapter, really, as things get weird when we meet the _Stórrmōdir _next chapter as well as the Mountain King. It is also the end of the short chapters. I expect there to be 2-3 more chapters on this case that are much longer than these first two. The next two cases have already been decided, the second case will likely bring us to 2013 and the third case will take us a few years back from this case.

Chapter Notes:

**Hermione's Visit:** I can't imagine that Harry or Ron would hold an order of this magnitude and just that flat-out wrong from Hermione no matter how classified it is. And I can't imagine Hermione taking it too well, but she won't say anything, because it could lose both Harry and Ron their jobs. This scene both serves to deepen the extent of Harry and Hermione's friendship and make it altogether sadder that Harry's been lying to friends and family. P.S. Rose!

**Ron and Harry's Banter**: If Harry draws comparison to Don Draper, then Ron is my Roger Sterling, whom for some reason is married to Anna Draper. Sorry, I think I'm going too far with the Mad Men comparison and it's really falling apart.

**The Mountain King:** The Mountain King seems to either command total loyalty or has some sort of mind-control device a la Hozhen in Midnight Blues. Seeing as how I've already done a mind-control device, it won't be that.

**The Elves:** More on them next chapter. The language is a cross between Welsh and Norse but I'm going to keep it relatively light, both for ease of reading and ease of research, but I'll leave a glossary for the words already used here not already explained in the text:

_- Gwedwir_: Term for human in the elvish language; roughly tranlates to "People of Clay". Plural is "Gwedwag".

_- Ljósálfar_: Old Norse meaning "Light Elves", opposite of the Dökkálfar, or Dark Elves, commonly believed to be the Norse mythological equivalent to dwarves.

_- Álfheim_: Home of the elves.

_- Stórrmōdir: _Translates to "Great Mother".

So, Good, bad, terrible? Just _okay_? Lay it on me; I won't cry. Hopefully.

Thanks for reading!  
Geist.

P.S.: There's one very telling thing Harry does in this chapter that will be implied but won't be explicitly stated for some time yet that sort of explains why he's behaving the way he does. See if you can find it.

P.P.S: I'm about 7000 words into the next chapter of Midnight Blues. It should be ready in a week or two.


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